


The Devil's Hour

by Zappa



Series: Lessons in Humanity [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: #no names, Angst, Hurt, M/M, Oneshot, Self-Harm, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:08:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zappa/pseuds/Zappa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has a bad night. Sebastian is there to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Hour

**Author's Note:**

> James Moriarty has demons that come out to play at 3 AM. Sebastian Moran is the vanquisher.  
> Let me know what you guys think, and thanks for all the lovely kudos! All of my work is Non-Beta, btw.  
> Thanks for all the encouragement and support!

The Criminal tore his eyes from the peacefully sleeping form of The Assassin and checked the time; 3 A.M. The Devil’s Hour. And indeed, it was.

The thoughts that swirled around inside The Criminal’s mind was nothing short of a nightmare, created in the depths of Hell. It was in these times of deathly stillness that The Criminal turned inside himself, examining the slime that composed the remnants of his soul.

Glancing back to the only good thing in his life, The Criminal’s stomach turned sour. How long, he wondered, until The Assassin realized, all too late, his fatal mistake of trusting The Criminal? How long, until. The Criminal didn’t want to find out.

Silently, he crept from the room they had shared for many years, padding down the hall. He slipped into a darkened room, closing the door behind him. He walked cat-like to the desk at the far side of the room, leaning and opening a drawer. With a sparkling glint in his eye, The Criminal lovingly lifted the pistol he kept there, holding it in his palm, testing the weight. 

He did not bother to shut the drawer, knowing all too well he would never use this weapon on himself. Not now, in any case. So he raised it to his temple, just for the rush, before placing it back in it’s resting place.

Then he made his way into the bathroom, the glare of florescent suddenly blinding him as he flipped the switch. He swatted, an annoyed scrunch on his face, and semi-blocked the glare with a pale forearm. Reaching the sink, he glanced up, into his own reflection.

Pain. Sorrow. Rage. Disgust. These expressions and emotions flowed through The Criminal like water. His dark eyes were fixed, red-rimmed and bloodshot. He looked as if he had been crying, but in fact, he had not. The Criminal couldn’t remember the last time he had shed tears, for anyone. Not even himself.

His eyes fell upon the bottle of expensive after shave he had bought The Assassin. Barely touched, which was fine. The Criminal preferred his natural scent. However, at this instant it struck him as terribly selfish and cruel, and he had thrown the bottle into the glass before he realized it. 

Pausing, still, head cocked to the side like a bird, The Criminal waited to see if The Assassin would wake. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper, but the past two days had been long ones for him, and The Criminal had no doubt the man was still deep in dreamland.

Light glinted from the shattered glass in the sink, and The Criminal turned to it, as if he could hear it calling to him. Trembling fingers gently lifted a small shard, turning it this way and that. He held it up close, so he could see the reflection of his own eye, before bringing it down slowly, till the pyramid tip touches flesh, skin pushes back, force is exerted, the glass wins. Bright riverlets of crimson life he hadn’t realized was still in him flow freely down The Criminal’s arm. The contrast pleases him. 

The taste of ashes in his mouth, a memento from their goodnight kiss, brings him back. It was a vice he disapproved of, but allowed. That was the underscore of their entire dynamic; The Criminal forbade things, The Assassin did them anyway, and The Criminal looked the other way.

He reached for his toothbrush, blood dripping, when a voice startled him, and he knocked the cup over, it landing atop the glass. 

“Wh’as going on?”

His voice was still rough from sleep, and as The Criminal turned, The Assassin was rubbing his eyes. He squinted.

“Boss?”

The Criminal bristled, leaning against the sink. He hunched his shoulders and turned away, eyes fixed on the shattered mirror.

“Go back to bed, coirnéal,” he said harshly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s an order.”

The Assassin straightened, noticing the Irish lilt. The focus was pulled to the damages, in and of the room.

“Christ.”

He ripped a hand towel so forcefully from it’s rack that one end came loose from the wall. The Criminal winced, but did not lift his eyes, even as he felt the other man carefully take his bleeding arm, and wrap it tightly.

The Assassin did not ask What, and he did not ask Why. He did not have to. He also knew better. And they both knew that this could go either way at any moment. Showing no reaction was what The Criminal did, it was his livelihood. He knew how to detach himself from situations, understood that emotions were a handicap. 

On the other hand, sometimes he simply could not contain himself. He became as if possessed, raging, teeth snarling, eyes gone black as hate, out of control.

Some days he did not remember what he had done in these states. Sometimes The Assassin would fill him in. Other times, he would not.

But as The Assassin touched and spoke, it’s calming effect was spreading. The Criminal relaxed his shoulders, slumping almost a foot, and his already hung head drooped.

Mumbled, unintelligible words coming from The Criminal caused The Assassin to lightly tug him closer, leaning until he was hovered protectively over the smaller man.

“Say again?” he asked in a hushed tone, only after The Criminal had made his utterance again. 

“Nothing, left.” The Criminal wiped his face against the larger man’s chest, warm, firm, dimly aware The Assassin’s arms were now around him. “Díobhadh,” he breathed- Obliteration.

He was lifted, carried, placed. An indent, a dip in the mattress, the comforting embrace of a man too far gone to care. Here, now. 

Tomorrow would come, again, and again, over and over. There would never be a perfect moment, no way to slow down time.

But for now, The Criminal slept, and the clock ticked down the minutes til dawn.


End file.
